


The Falling of the Leaves

by aronnaxs



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M, Pre-Hobbit
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-24
Updated: 2013-10-24
Packaged: 2017-12-30 08:32:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1016413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aronnaxs/pseuds/aronnaxs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Struggling with the isolated, confined life his father has put upon him, Legolas longs to stray beyond the borders of Mirkwood. [future M]</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Falling of the Leaves

CHAPTER ONE

He stood before his father, feeling his crystal blue eyes sear into him. A more scrutinous, searching gaze, in Legolas' mind, could not be found in all of Arda; he would find any flaw, no matter how minute, no matter how seemingly unimportant, and it would be set straight. The habit had set him on a fine edge ever since his childhood and he had never been able to escape it. It was continuously like walking on an ancient, high path where one wrong step would make all the stone crumble away into nothing.

The king was pedantic at the best of times yet that evening, he would be hosting a grand party for the elves departing back to Lórien and Rivendell and was like a hunter searching out the weakness in the prey. For many a day they had stayed, the Lord of Imladris and the Lady of the Golden Wood walking and sitting for long hours with his father, talking of great matters. As the prince, he felt he was old enough now to deal in and discuss such things also. But his father had not breathed a word about it to him, and asking him directly had proved fruitless. Once, he had sought out the knowledge of Haldir of Lórien yet he too proved secretive, or truly did not have the vaguest notion either, other than the affairs were clearly of grave necessity.

He dared not raise his eyes to look at his father as he peered down at him from his high throne, for his own fear of what he would see. Still, once or twice, he descended from the chair and stalked around him like a circling eagle, and with eyes just as sharp. He raised the hem of his robe with his staff to examine the condition of his boots, more than several times adjusted the fit of his circlet and finally, tutted at the state of his hair.

"I tell them every time, every morning," he muttered, half to himself, half to Legolas. "Yet they still cannot get it correct."

The prince readied himself as his father tugged at the braid his hand servants had laboured so hesitantly over, fearing the king's wrath. He loosened it and then pulling and twisting harshly, plaited it anew. Legolas' eyes watered by the time he had finished but blinked the tears away as his father returned to his front.

"Fine," he said. "You're acceptable. Be sure not to ruin it at the feast. As the Prince of Mirkwood, you must make the best of appearances. The guests have travelled far and it would be a shame to leave a bitter taste in their mouths on their last night."

"I have met them before, adar. It is not as though I am a stranger before them." It was a futile attempt to shake off his father's overbearing presence over him. No matter what he said, his eyes would be continuously on him through the night, assuring he didn't make any mistakes.

"And you may meet them many times again. One day, you may be King and upon your coronation, you will want to survey your subjects with the strongest of guises. You do not want any there who will stare back at you and know your weaknesses."

"Adar -"

Thranduil interrupted his son by calling over his servants. They bowed and he asked them of the preparations in the great hall. They were fine, one said - fine? asked the King in response. The other servant said they were perfect. This satisfied Thranduil far more. If he had not been witness to this little show before each of his father's events, Legolas may have found it vaguely amusing. Yet, as it was, it spoke of the deep-lying trait he disliked so much in his father; Thranduil's staunch perfectionism and his willingness to control.

Yet it had not always been so.

He drew himself back up as his father turned to him again. "They are ready for us, iôn. You know how it will be. You will enter with me, you will sit with me and you will leave with me when we are done."

"Will we be talking of the matters you, Lord Elrond and Lady Galadriel have been discussing? I should like to have some notion of what is happening."

"Iôn." Thranduil spoke the word firmly, though for a moment, Legolas thought he saw a change in his cold eyes. It soon vanished. "Iôn, I have spoken to you of this." He glanced around at his servants who were standing at a respectable distance. "What has been said between my guests and I does not concern you. I do not want you involved. No, we will certainly not discuss it at the feast. The matters are - they are not appropriate for such an occasion and with so many around."

Legolas bowed his head in submission. He knew if what had been said had concerned his father, it certainly would have concerned him also. Such an important concern that it required the wisest of elves to lock themselves behind thick doors - It troubled him. But he said no more of it.

He could do no more but to follow his father out of his lavish throne room and into the cavernous labyrinth of corridors which led to the grand hall. There was nothing about the king that was not ostentatious. Although a respected and astute ruler, his weakness was in decadence and extravagant appearances. They passed columns and decor hewn from living oak, paintings that spoke of past triumphs, the elegant, swirling patterns of the woodland realm; everything was impressive in its bearing and magnitude. Thranduil had at least allowed his son to accompany his guests around the royal residence, and he had seen first hand the awe it could inspire, even to those accustomed to such richness.

Yet for one who had lived for hundreds of years within these walls, the wealth of it all had started to become lost. Not often did his father permit him to leave very far so the mundaneness of seeing it each day had caused it to become quite sterile of its nobility. He wished more and more as the years passed, and the leaves fell outside the upper windows of the cave, that he could gain some new sights of the world.

His distant thoughts were interrupted as they reached the grand hall. Thranduil called him immediately to his side, admonishing him slightly for trailing so far behind. Together they entered.

The entire length and height of the room had been decorated exquisitely by careful, talented hands. Somehow, everything appeared to glow, the lights of the candles and torches radiant in each corner. The atmosphere felt curiously airy and soft in there, contrasted with the heavy stone pillars surrounding them all. Father and son now walked between them, quietly acknowledging the crowds who had risen from the already-full tables in respect. As they neared their places at the head table, Legolas caught the eye of Haldir who he was pleased to see was sitting nearby. He nodded discreetly, privately wondering if his father would allow him to spend at least some of the evening at the march-warden's side.

They took their places next to one another before the congregation and in a loud, commanding voice, Thranduil opened the feast. After this, it faded into similarity with every other event Legolas had attended with his father. He smiled politely, nodding and talking when spoken to, every bit the fair elven prince, but secretly wished that the evening would quickly draw to a close. If maybe his company had been allowed to be more open and amiable towards him, he would have felt more at ease. As it was, under the watchful eye of his father, he could not find much relaxation or enjoyment.

Once during the festivities, a servant came to mutter in his father's ear that Haldir desired to speak to his son. He hesitated then allowed it, if he came up to the high table himself. Haldir approached, bowed deeply to the king and as he would soon be departing the realm, asked for permission to spend the following morning with Legolas. Thranduil brushed him off before his son could speak, giving the excuses that he would be too weary and that he was not some elven maid to be courted. Haldir looked offended by the suggestion but accepted it, as Legolas also had to.

It was not until the intervention of Lord Elrond hours later that he escaped his father's watchful eye. A questionably sober servant of the king was placed in charge of his well-being and Thranduil finally left the table. The prince took the opportunity where he could and hoping he would not land the guard in too much trouble with his father, slipped from his place and manoeuvred quickly and silently through the heavy crowds. As far as he hoped, no one saw him leave.

The cool stillness of the cavern corridors felt pleasantly relieving after the crush of the great hall, like finding fresh air after a flood. He walked through them until the last of the sounds of the party faded to muffled laughter and he was sure the passageways were deserted. From there on, he knew the route to his father's courtyard outside amongst the trees. It was a place only he and his father ever went, with no other visitors allowed to pass into it without permission. He tended to visit it far more frequently than his father did, however, especially as of late when he had become exceptionally busier.

The courtyard was as it ever was, as it ever had been for hundreds of years. Three walls surrounded its elegant facade, with the space where the fourth should have been opening up into the deep forest. Lanterns lit up the dark night and caused the lapping water of the central fountain to sparkle and shimmer, like mithril, in the glow. It was blissfully tranquil all year round and even the chill breeze whistling softly through the trees did not disturb it. Legolas moved through the blossoming hedges, just recently erupting into beautiful rich flowers, and sat upon the stone bench which overlooked the woodland. Far below, he could hear the distant swirling of the river cutting a path through the realm and out of the forest to Esgaroth and beyond. He had not visited the Lake-Town for a long while. Although nothing like his father's regal halls, it was beautiful in its own rustic, quiet way. He had read much of its history in the thick tomes of the library. He reminded himself that he had also lived through much of its history; though in his confinement to the realm, he had found more of it in the pages of books than his own experiences.

He looked down upon the hidden lanes running through the woods and knew there were many more places in Arda he would like to see beyond Esgaroth. So many tales he had heard, and so many paintings he had seen but none could ever match what was truly out there. Beyond the borders. Beyond these halls.

His father had once wished for him to see the world also, maybe even to use his extensive training he had acquired over the years to become a warrior in battle, just like he had been in his youth. He did not speak of those days often but Legolas knew his father must have been a fine soldier. He had seen much and had experienced much. Legolas did not know how much he had truly told him.

But then the winter had come one year long, long ago; the coldest winter any could remember, with a bite that turned the trees to crystalline sentinels and stifled the heat in the halls. He recalled vague snatches of his life through that melancholy time, images that came back to him in fractured fragments. He had only seen a few passings of the seasons then. He remembered a blurred picture of his mother, blonde hair whitened by the snows. Her face flushed by the heat of the fire. Curling him in her tender arms as the winds howled through the caverns. The last time he had looked upon her, standing on the steps to the great front gate then disappearing like a white ghost into the trees. She had never returned, and no desperate waiting in this courtyard with his father had ever brought her back.

That had been many, many long years ago. Yet the deep wounds of it still cut bitterly.

He did not know how long he spent alone in the courtyard, staring out over the dark realm. As of late, it seemed to be even darker, mimicking the night even in the midst of the day. The trees had begun to shudder, not only in the breezes, and Legolas was certain he had felt a change in its whispers. It now rested in the cool darkness, though even then its heaviness still pressed down upon him. Maybe it was a trick of his mind, he thought, his and his father's own feelings reflected upon their home.

He suddenly became aware of soft footsteps behind him. He wondered how much time had passed since he had left the halls; he had quite forgotten about his father's party. "Legolas," came a firm voice. He slowly rose from the bench to face the king. He did not look pleased, his icy features betraying a stormy countenance. "I did not see you leave."

"No, adar, I'm sorry, I did not feel - I did not feel I would be missed if I did."

Thranduil studied him for a moment then sighed as if dealing with a petulant child. "You are a prince, Legolas, you cannot merely slip out of festivities with no warning, no reason." Legolas hung his head. If he was treated as a child, he also felt like one. "But I knew you would come here. Hiding from me. It is too late and too cold for you to be outside with nothing on but this robe, which I see you have at least kept clean. Go to your chambers. I will see you in the morning at breakfast."

"I am not a little elfling anymore, adar."

Thranduil paused and looked upon his son across the courtyard they had once spent so much time in together, gazing forlornly into the depths of the forest. Legolas wondered where that companionship had gone. His father soon answered him by turning and sweeping back into the halls. Legolas listened to the quiet brushing of his robes against the marble floor as he strode away.

It was not long before he joined him, walking in the opposite way back to his chambers.

(Tbc)

**Author's Note:**

> Adar - father
> 
> Iôn - son
> 
> so I'm going to try and write this and 'Dwarven Hospitality' at the same time as idk, I have some type of penchant for writing too many stories at once xD!
> 
> This will be a future Bard/Legolas fanfic as there is not nearly enough fanfic for that pairing and I personally love it as a ship C: oh and I usually dislike asshole!Thranduil and that's not my view of him at all but bear with me because there's more to come on that...!
> 
> Reviews and feedback always appreciated :)
> 
> oh and almost forgot the disclaimer - I don't own anyone, not doing for profit etc etc etc you know all that


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